Tales of the Institute: London
by jewlbird
Summary: Still reeling from the deaths of her parents, eleven-year-old Emma Carstairs attempts navigate her temporary home, the London Institute.
1. City of Drowning Cats

**Hey guys :)**** I was really inspired by Cassie Clare's coming series, The Dark Artifices. She's only released little tidbits on the series, so this is me, trying to fill in the gaps. **

**I've tried to make the London geography as accurate as possible. I have never been to London, so Google will have to suffice x) I tried my best. I am crossing my fingers that I am not miserably wrong. Hope you enjoy **

* * *

Emma Carstairs sat on the cold stone steps of the London Institute. The sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, hardly visible through the shroud of mist and eternal gloom that must have settled over the city in some distant past life. London was always this way, it seemed. When Emma had first arrived, Ben had compared living in London to being a drowning cat. Perhaps he had just been trying to make her laugh, but he had still made a valid point. The dampness seemed to seep into your bones, Emma thought.

The Carstairs family had relocated themselves more times than Emma could count—or even remember—but of all the many places she had lived, Emma liked London the least. With its packed streets, dirty air, and, from where the Institute was located, the smell of salty, rusty river water from the Thames, she had never been able to imagine herself ever calling it _home. _

It seemed like some kind of dream that this was where she was trapped. Her father had declared that the city was calling out to them, claiming Carstairs family heritage; according to him this was where they truly belonged. Emma had hardly agreed with him. Nevertheless, her family had uprooted itself, like it had so many times before. They had managed to snag a tiny flat in Clapham, so close to Hyde Park that she had been able to see the shrubs and greenery from her bedroom window. She thought of the boxes that her family had never gotten the chance to unpack, the sheets and flannels, and her mother's favorite curtains…

The backs of Emma's eyes stung. She glanced up at the moon, a silvery crescent above the empty drive, in an attempt not to cry. The Montclaire's tiny silver car was gone. There was a London Enclave meeting tonight, and being the curators of the London Institute, the Montclaires were expected to lead it. Ben was in the weapons room, no doubt, and Mrs. Tanner scarcely stepped outside the Institute for any purpose. For the most part, the inhabitants of the Institute let her be, asking no questions of her, only summoning her for meals. So Emma let the tears slip from the corners of her eyes. There was no danger of her being interrupted.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, rocking herself on the step. She was meant to be inside, where the Montclaires had told her to stay, in the drawing room. But it had been so cold in there. The stone walls seemed to loom above her menacingly, the empty room echoing with shades of the Shadowhunters that had lived there in the past. Emma vaguely remembered her father saying something about the mortar being mixed with the blood of Shadowhunters, but she didn't want to think about that. Thinking of either of her parents made her sick to her stomach.

So she had abandoned her seat—a comfy recliner placed in front of a fireplace so large that Emma had feared that it might swallow her up into its vast, unfamiliar blackness. She'd left the stone walls and the plate of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which she absolutely despised, on the old desk with the ink pot. She liked peanut butter just fine, and jelly as well. But the combination made her cringe. Not wanting to go to her room, which was just as cold and empty as the drawing room, she'd come out to the porch, with hopes that the night would calm her.

It hadn't. The iron gates loomed in front of her, beads of black paint from when they had been re-coated dripping down like moist tears, because not even metal posts could bear to guard such a gloomy place. _Pulvis et umbra sumus, _they said. _We are dust and shadows._ Or so Ben had told her. Emma had never paid much attention during her Latin lessons. She didn't love the language as her mother had. The oak trees were ancient and twisted, writhing in the feral soil of London. At least she imagined it to be feral. She wasn't sure. The only way to find that out, she supposed, was to engage in some abominable activity, such as eating the stuff, which she was at no liberty to do. Nevertheless, Emma couldn't help thinking back to her lessons on Victorian Era London, the great factories belting out smoke and leaking acid into the ground. Of course, there had never been a factory here. Only an old church, held together by the blood of her kin and theirs alike.

Emma looked out over the streets of London. The Institute was located in the center of a square surrounded by neatly clipped hedgerows. Light seeped out the tower window, which was where Ben's room was, though she doubted there was anybody in it. Ben was always leaving the lights on. The whole place had a peaceful aura about it, Emma thought. The street lanterns twinkled like yellow stars. A squirrel skittered down the side of one of the trees, knocking acorns to the ground as it went. They pattered to the ground like heavy drops of rain.

Emma reached down the collar of her shirt, pulling on the chain of her locket. It was a tarnished thing, about the size of a pebble and carefully molded into the shape of a heart. It was old, and no matter how often Emma wore it, it was always cold against her chest, like a tiny chip of ice over her heart. Her mother had given it to her the last time she had seen her, and now Emma clutched it as her icy anchor to the world, just as her mother had done before she had released it into her daughter's hand.

Emma remembered the night perfectly. The lanterns had been lit on the street corners, the sidewalk littered with rubbish that pedestrians had chucked on the ground as they'd passed the Carstairs's quaint old residence. The evening air bit into Emma's cheeks as she waited with her father on the front porch. Her mother was inside, dressing in her Shadowhunting gear.

"Play something for me before you go," Emma pleaded with him. Her father's long violinist fingers tapped a beat against the bricked steps. He looked up at her, his eyes shining as they always did when his daughter requested that he play her a piece.

"Bring me my violin," he told her.

Emma had rushed into the house, hurrying to the alcove where her father kept the violin. She handled the case carefully—it was old, or at least her father had said so. The weight was familiar in her arms, the shape of the case pressing into her chest.

When she sat back down beside her father, he deftly unfastened the clasps on the case and lifted the old violin to play. Emma settled down beside him, listening to the bow hum across the strings, quick, like sunlight dancing off water. The tune flowed like honey, smooth and rich, sweet to her ears. She didn't recognize this melody, but that was alright—she madly enjoyed it when her father would play her something new.

The refrain slipped past, and Emma could feel her eyelids becoming heavy, her mind becoming weary as it always did when it was riddled with thoughts of sleep. The melody sped, the piece coming to a light and airy climax—

"John." The music stopped. Emma's head snapped up and she turned around. Her mother was standing in the doorway, backlit by the soft glow spilling from the house. She was holding a gold sword and a stele, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun. She handed the sword to her husband, unwinding her whip, which Emma hadn't noticed before, from her wrist. "It's time."

Emma watched as her father replaced the violin in the case and shut it up tight. Standing, he strapped the sword to his back, whispering something to his wife.

The violin was still sitting next to Emma. She fingered the latches, tracing her hand across the name engraved into the side. She didn't have to look at it to know what the name was: _James Carstairs._ "Who was that?" she asked suddenly.

Both of her parents turned to look at her. "Who?"

"James Carstairs." She had never thought to ask before; she had figured he was just some distant Carstairs ancestor. Shadowhunters valued them so. Their long deceased. Their predecessors.

Her father shrugged. "This old thing has been in the family for generations. I'll tell you about it someday. Now put that away."

Emma had hefted the violin in her arms once more, slipping past her parents and returning to the little alcove. When she turned around, she started. Her mother moved with such catlike grace that Emma hadn't realized that she had followed her inside.

"I know you wanted to know about the Carstairs family tonight," she said. She was holding something in her hand, Emma saw. Her mother's knuckles were pale, her nails digging into her palm. "But I have something I want to give to you. From _my_ ancestors."

Emma held out her hand expectantly. Her mother dropped something into it. The long chain of a necklace spilled into her hand like cool water. Emma lifted the pendant—a small heart—to her eye to examine.

"It's a locket," her mother explained, pressing her lips into a thin line. "Passed down through the Townsend family for generations. It's dear to me, Emma. Please take care of it."

Emma looked up her mother. Her expression was tight, almost as if she didn't want Emma to have the old thing. "If it's so special to you, why are you giving it to me?"

"To remind you that we're fighting," her mother said simply. "Fighting for you, and the rest of our kind." She smoothed Emma's hair back with a gentle hand, murmuring something in Latin. "_Vale, filia meam." _

"We're not supposed to say goodbye," Emma murmured, recognizing the phrase.

"I know," her mother said, pulling Emma into a hug. "I slipped up." She released her quickly. "We have to go. _Te amo, _Emma."

"I love you, too."

That night, a cold rain had fallen over London's southeast side. The wind howled, beating against Emma's shutters like a screaming banshee. Lighting flashed at irregular intervals, and thunder growled as if she were in the belly of some starving beast. Unable to sleep, Emma had flipped on the small reading lamp downstairs, curling up with her mother's copy of the _Odyssey _in Greek in an attempt to bore herself into slumber. She had hardly been able to differentiate between the thunder and the pounding on the door.

Stiff with fear, Emma stood on her toes and peered through the peep hole in the front door. The pounding still hadn't stopped, but now that she was closer to the door, Emma could hear voices.

"Clave!" one of them shouted. "In the name of the Angel, open the door!"

Shaking, Emma undid the chain lock and flung the door open. A group of Shadowhunters stood in the doorway in sopping wet gear. Emma frowned at them. This was strange. She had never heard of the Clave making house calls.

"Is this the residence of John and Cordelia Carstairs?" A tall, slender woman kneeled in front of Emma, her accented voice calm and soft. Emma nodded. "Are you their daughter?" Emma nodded again, too shaken to lie. What would she say? "You'll need to come with us, then."

They were dead, of course. The Montclaires had hastened to assure Emma of that when she had arrived the next day at the London Institute, offering her no condolences in their slight French accents. Her parents' bodies had yet to be located, but they were long gone. Emma had loved them so much, yet all had to show for their existence was a duffle bag full of clothes and a cold metal heart around her neck.

Emma flipped open the locket now, her hands shaking. Inside, the gold plating gleamed like a tiny sun. On one side was a mirror, reflecting in it nothing but the front door and the porch behind her. The other side held a tiny print picture of her family—her mother, with her long blonde hair and kind eyes, and Emma, young and innocent, and her father, his violin pressed against his hip. They looked happy. Emma, unable to bear looking at the miniature versions of her parents any longer, was about to snap the locket shut when something caught her eye.

She started. In the reflection of the mirror, she could have sworn she had seen something—or someone—behind her. She whirled to face the Institute, stifling a gasp. Behind her was a girl, her pale face shining as the moon in the sky above her. Her hair was milky blonde, her eyes brown as chocolate. Emma had never seen anyone quite so classically beautiful, but there was something hazy about her, the edges of her blurry and indistinct. Still, the girl reminded Emma of the French models that she had seen on billboards in Paris- the ones with French words plastered all over their faces- only with better cheek bones. She was dressed in a white nightgown, her hair billowing over her shoulders. A bloody stain covered the front of the gown. Emma stared as the mysterious creature beckoned her with a finger. "Come; let me get a better look at you."

Emma surged forward, almost as if her feet were moving against her own will. The girl was balanced on the porch railings, her dainty face pinched as she examined Emma. She couldn't have been touching the rail, Emma thought. Ghosts were incorporeal beings; they couldn't touch or take hold of anything. Could they?

"You're a blonde," the girl said finally, her eyes flitting across the square, as if she were bored.

Emma said nothing. She couldn't think of anything acceptable _to_ say. Was it impolite to ask her age? She might have been a ghost, but she was still a lady.

The girl wrinkled her nose. "You _can_ see me, can't you?" Emma nodded, and the ghost girl clapped her hands in delight. "Splendid. Come, don't be aloof. It's been nearly a century since there's been anyone in the Institute who could see me. There was Will, of course, and his awful son, and that one American man, but I wouldn't dream of revealing myself to an _American_. They're so disagreeable, don't you think?"

"I'm American," Emma said quietly.

The ghost's face fell. "Oh," she said. "Well, that's alright. You live here _now_, don't you? And you've left that rubbish land, hopefully for good. What's your name, child?"

"Emma," Emma said.

The ghost rolled her eyes. "Your full name, not your Christian name, silly girl," she prompted, adding under her breath, "_Americans_."

"Emma Carstairs," Emma managed. She felt awfully silly, talking to a ghost. She wasn't even sure if she believed in ghosts. She had never been quite as interested in the supernatural aspect of Shadowhunting so much as the fighting. "My father says-said-that we have English roots. That's why we came here."

"That you do," the ghost murmured faintly, squinting her eyes and examining Emma some more. "That you do." How much scrutiny could someone put a person under? "Well, run along and play, Miss Emma Carstairs. Unless there was something you wished to ask me?" she cocked an eyebrow expectantly.

There were a thousand different questions Emma wanted to ask, but she decided on what was probably the most sensible one. "You never told me your name."

The girl's lips curled into something between a smirk and a sneer. "Jessamine Lovelace," she said. "Forever damned to stand guard over these iron gates and crumbling stones. Now run along."

Emma stumbled back into the Institute, thinking that, at least where damnation was concerned, there were things far worse than guarding an Institute to which one could be sentenced.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed!**

**I am releasing this as sort of a demo chapter to gauge interest in this story. If you're interested, please leave a review. I will have another chapter up as soon as I know people actually want to continue reading. **

**Thank you!**


	2. The Implications of a Sandwich

**Hey, guys :) I felt like updating today, so enjoy!**

**Reviews are greatly appreciated! I worked really hard on this. **

* * *

Emma slipped back into the foyer silently, slightly dazed. She wasn't quite sure if what she had seen was real, or if she was going slightly mad. Either way, it was nice to have a companion slightly less flighty and moody than Ben, though not by much.

"What do you think you're up to?" The voice startled Emma, who turned to see Mrs. Tanner, the Institute's housekeeper, standing in front of the grandfather clock, frowning. She wasn't sure how the woman had escaped her notice before -all bones and sharp angles, and a long beaky nose to boot, one could hardly miss her. She was slender to the point that Emma had dubbed her _Beanpole_. Her eyes were black and beady, and her hair was a dark, chestnut brown color. Her hands were planted on her skinny hips. "Well?"

Emma looked down at her scuffed flats. "I was bored," she said lamely. It was true, of course. It seemed that she had been in a state of either perpetual boredom or sadness since she had arrived in London.

"Oh really?" Mrs. Tanner demanded, training her beady eyes on Emma. Her gaze alone could have bored a whole right through Emma's skull, she had no doubt. "Who were you talking to, then?"

Emma stared at her blankly, scrambling for a believable response and wondering if the woman had had her ear pressed up against the door. She and Jessamine hadn't been talking exceptionally loud, and Mrs. Tanner didn't have the aid of runes—she wasn't a Shadowhunter. "You heard that?"

"I heard everything, including Mrs. Montclaire's request for you to remain in the drawing room," the woman replied pointedly, her frown deepening. She looked like an angry dog when she frowned, Emma thought. "Now spit it out. Who were you talking to?"

Emma's palms were beginning to sweat. She knew she had no real reason to be nervous, but being under Mrs. Tanner's scrutiny was enough to make anyone sweat, according to Ben. She could tell the truth, but the woman would never believer her. Emma wasn't quite sure if she even believed herself. There weren't many people who could see ghosts, and it seemed somewhat of a deterring anomaly, at least in Emma's eyes. "Sometimes," she said hastily, "I talk to myself."

Mrs. Tanner's expression quickly turned from one of annoyance to one of sympathy, concern even. "Go back to the drawing room, child. I'll fetch you some warm milk. See if that'll make you feel better."

The glass of warm milk joined the plate of peanut butter and jelly, untouched on the desk. Mrs. Tanner had come into the drawing room nearly half an hour earlier holding the white foamy liquid. Milk, Emma believed, was a detestable beverage.

"You're quite a picky eater." Mrs. Montclaire was standing in the doorway, her rusty colored coat brushing the toes of her tasteless grey boots. She brushed a stray strand of grey hair out of her eyes and motioned for her husband to follow. He murmured something to her in French, his voice hushed, as if Emma could actually understand him. Mrs. Montclaire shrugged and took a seat on the old sofa opposite Emma. "You know, it took me quite some time to find the peanut butter for your sandwich." She wrinkled her nose distastefully, as if the thought of peanut butter upset her. "It's not something we have a lot of in London. But when I asked Benjamin what he thought American children liked, he said, _peanut butter and jam._"

Emma was surprised by the gesture; the Montclaires had been nothing but cold and unsympathetic to her since she had arrived. Perhaps that was what happened when you grew old: the grief of others seemed distant and empathy was rendered a worthless quality. They didn't seem to like children very much either. She was surprised that they didn't come outside and shake their fists when she walked on the lawn.

"Not all American children," Emma grumbled, slipping her shoes off and curling her legs under her.

"What was that?" Mrs. Montclaire's blue eyes flashed dangerously.

"Thank you," Emma said. "I'm just not very hungry."

"Yes, grief will do that to you," the woman said dismissively, her expression flat.

"The time for misery has passed," her husband cut in. Mr. Montclaire, who had taken the seat next to his wife, was a pudgy man with a receding hairline. A single swatch of grey-brown hair was centered on the crown of his head. His eyes were a watery green color, like jade. The normally quiet man appeared to be miffed, as if grief was one of the inconveniences of life that could be avoided by simply choosing not to feel it. "Now you must return to what you once were."

Emma fought back tears. This was their way of saying, _Get over it. Move on. Hurting for the dead isn't going to change anything, so why bother? _ In a way, she agreed with them. Yet she feared she would never simply move on. Was it even possible? Her parents were a part of her; she still saw them every night in her dreams. "What if I can't?" she said quietly.

"Speak up, Emma," Mrs. Montclaire snapped. "I can hardly understand a word you're saying. Honestly."

Emma shook her head dismissively. "Nothing."

Mrs. Montclaire straightened up. The old sofa creaked under the combined weight of her and her husband. "Well. Where to begin?" She flashed a fleeting yellow-toothed smile at Emma, which was clearly forced. "We made arrangements for you to be sent to America. You'll be shipped off to the Los Angeles Institute in just as soon as the war is over. It will be soon, I should think."

A strange crush of emotions enveloped Emma at the moment. She had figured that the Montclaires didn't particularly like her, but she hadn't figured that they would "ship her off." As much as she enjoyed the thought of going back to America, she couldn't help but feel a little hurt that they didn't want her. What if the Los Angeles Institute didn't want her, either? They hadn't asked to acquire another orphan, a misfit.

Then there was the war. Emma hadn't heard much about it from her parents. They had gone to fight, to defend Idris-she knew that much. They hadn't expected it to last. She wasn't exactly sure what the war was being fought over or _who _was being fought. Demons, she guessed. But weren't the wards meant to do that? She wasn't sure, but she had heard talk of a man, Valentine, who had stolen the Mortal Sword from the Silent City. He surely couldn't have been on their side, but in truth Emma wasn't sure what side she was on. The war had stolen her parents from her. She didn't think she agreed with it at all.

Mrs. Montclaire was looking at her Emma expectantly. "Are you pleased? We thought this would be best. We're simply too busy to care for you. Benjamin is nearly eighteen, and he'll be away to Idris soon to study, so they'll be no companions for you here."

"I used to live in Los Angeles," was all Emma said.

"Then it's settled," said Mr. Montclaire, standing. He was heavy enough to require the aid of the sofa arm to hoist himself up. "You'll be off by the end of the week."

Mrs. Montclaire stood up too, making a comment in French. Her tone of voice was deceptively relieved. Her husband made an affirmative noise. "No dinner tonight, Emma," she said, brushing off her coat, as if dust could have settled over it within the last five minutes. "You have plenty." She motioned to the peanut butter and jelly and milk.

The door shut behind them. "Are you going to eat that?" A cool voice inquired. Emma looked up. She hadn't noticed Ben slip into the room, which didn't surprise her. He moved like a silent wind throughout the Institute and had already snuck up on her a number of times during the relatively short duration of her stay.

Emma stalked over to the plate and tore a reluctant bite out of the sandwich, washing it down with a swig of milk. The pair tasted as awful as she had anticipated. Ben flopped down on the sofa where the Montclaires had been seated. He was a tall boy, thin with corded muscle running up and down his arms. He was blonde, like Emma, but had the most mischievous green eyes. He reached under the sofa and pulled out a little green book. It seemed an odd place for a book, and an old one at that. She guessed he must have stowed it there for his own enjoyment, though Ben didn't strike her as the reading type. He opened the book, saying,

"So they're sending you away are they?" He grinned at her broadly. "I'd like to know what you've done to them now. _I'd_ have done it ages ago if I'd known they'd send me off."

Emma crossed her arms over her chest, glaring first at her unfinished dinner, then at Ben. "I didn't do anything to them," she said defensively.

"You must have," Ben said. "They hate you. Raquel was talking about you, by the way. Right before she left she said that she was relieved you're going. And something about a sandwich."

"You were listening?" Emma was quickly realizing that there were snoops lurking about the Institute.

"Of course." Ben sat up, the book tumbling to the floor. He pointed to a rune inked in black on his forearm. "I've heard practically everything they've been saying about you. And it's nothing kind."

"You sound like Beanpole," Emma said, downing the rest of her milk. She fiddled with the crusts of the sandwich. She wished there was dog around to feed them to.

Ben chuckled at the use of Mrs. Tanner's nickname. "She's a hawk, isn't she?"

Emma nodded. She pointed at the book, which was laying spine up on the floor. "What's that?"

Ben shrugged, deftly plucking the book from the ground and placing it in Emma's hand. "A book," he said. "Do they not have them in America?"

Emma rolled her eyes. "Of course we do. What meant was—never mind." She paused for a moment, absently turning the book over in her hand. "Do the Montclaires really hate me?"

"It would seem so," Ben said matter-of-factly. "They haven't got _that_ much work. If they wanted you to stay, you would stay. They won't even have you call them by their first names. They're generally cold people, make no mistake, but they've been positively frosty towards you, little Emma."

"But why?" Emma asked.

He began to stuff the remnants of her sandwich into his mouth, leaving only crumbs on the plate. "There's a reason, I'm sure," Ben said around his mouthful, spewing bits of bread onto Emma in the process. She brushed them off. "We just don't know it." He shrugged. "Just be glad you're leaving them in the confinements of London. I'm hungry." As he turned to leave, he was tripped up by Emma's shoes, which were still lying in front of the recliner. He kicked them towards her. "Do something with those," he muttered in annoyance, shutting the door behind him.

Emma smiled faintly as she examined the book Ben has left her with. The binding appeared fragile—she was surprised that it had survived the drop from the couch. The spine was crooked, the lettering faded to nonexistence. She flipped it open. On the title page—the book was apparently called _Vathek_—was a short blurb scrawled in ink. It was so faded that Emma could hardly decipher the writing.

_Caliph Vathek and—_

_Are bound for Hell, you won't be bored_

_—in me will be—_

_Unless this token you find untoward_

_—poor gift you have ignored—_

_—Will_

It was a strange little poem, Emma thought, at the same time wondering who "Will"might have been. She remembered Jessamine mentioning something about a Will while they were on the porch. Perhaps she would know.

Flipping through the book further, Emma discovered more writing, in the margins this time, though it clearly was not in the same hand. This writing was cramped, and though the ink was darker and clearly less dated, it was just as illegible as the last. Phrases, even entire pages and passages, were underlined, arrows indicating notes that were to be associated with them. Why anyone would deface a book, Emma wasn't entirely sure, but in her attempt to decipher the chicken scratch, she realized that there was yet another set of handwriting. These letters were flowery and delicate, clearly that of a woman. Written directly beneath the cramped handwriting, her notes seemed to a correspondence of sorts.

Emma set the book down, wistfully wishing for a correspondence of her own. Breathing in the scent of peanut butter, she belatedly realized that she had smeared some of the stuff across the book's back cover. It joined the melee of various other stains that the book had accumulated over the years, blending in to the point where it almost wasn't noticeable, though she doubted that any of them was peanut butter.

Emma knew she didn't belong in a land without peanut butter. Perhaps Montclaires really thought they were doing the right thing by sending her to Los Angeles. She knew she would be happier there. Perhaps Ben was wrong, and they didn't hate her at all. Mrs. Montclaire _had _made her the sandwich, after all.

Emma gazed at the empty plate on the desk, pondering the implications of a peanut butter sandwich.

* * *

**Just a friendly reminder: I did work extremely hard on this chapter and previous chapter, and I would really like some feedback on it, even if you didn't like it.**

** I don't want to sound thirsty for reviews, but I'm asking nicely! Have a good day, everyone!**


End file.
